


(Definitely Not) The Roughest Place I've Ever Been

by babykid528



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Birthday, Blues, Celebrity Crush, F/M, Guitars, Kissing, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykid528/pseuds/babykid528
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JESSTIEL!!!! <33333</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Definitely Not) The Roughest Place I've Ever Been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [highflyerwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/highflyerwings/gifts).



You walk into the second seediest bar in town.

This isn’t typical behavior for you.

You usually prefer to drink at home, away from the crowds and strangers and uncomfortable conversations. But this place has decent bourbon and more than decent live music every night. So you’re here. Despite tomorrow being a workday.

Because it’s your fucking birthday and Sunday night is open mic Blues night.

So you’ll do what you want.

The bar is mostly empty, except for a few of the people you know as regulars.

(You’re not here often enough to really be considered a regular yourself, but you’re just shy of earning that title now. You’re okay with that.)

The little stage in the far corner of the bar is empty when you enter, save for the local back up band’s instruments.

You turn to the familiar bartender and order yourself a drink. She always serves you a drink that’s just a bit fuller than it really should be and she passes it over with a small wink. (You’re sure to tip her well, always.)

You make your way over to your usual booth then, take a seat, take a sip, and settle into the cracked vinyl as the night’s first musician, who has apparently arrived, tunes up his guitar.

When he starts playing Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Dirty Pool,” you look up.

The bar is pretty dark, but the stage is lit in this hazy kind of rainbow glow only a bar could manage to achieve, and at the center of it all is an older looking man, grey hair reflecting blues and purples, as he hunches almost protectively around the guitar in his lap.

He doesn’t lift his head enough for you to see his face until the few lyrics in the piece come. Even if his face was still hidden you would recognize that voice anywhere.

You down a big gulp of your drink before pushing it aside, then you fumble for your phone, and through the contacts before you find the name you’re looking for.

The message is simple:

_BRUCE GREENWOOD IS PLAYING STEVIE RAY VAUGHAN IN THE BAR I AM IN RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!_

The reply is almost instantaneous:

_OMFGHIQIKAMSKNIJ WHAAAAAAAATTTTTT??????? BRUUUUUUUUUCEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! MEET HIMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!_

You don’t need to be told twice.

The song is a rough one, technically. The rhythm and the speed required for the guitar are exhausting and while it’s ridiculously impressive that Bruce manages to play through it, it’s not at all surprising that he takes a break and lets another musician play a bit before he gets back to it himself.

Bruce props up his guitar on the stand at the back of the stage and heads to the bar, greeting the few people who compliment his playing, before he orders himself a beer.

It doesn’t take him long to realize you’re staring.

He locks eyes with yours, offers a wide smile at the stunned look you give him, and he actually laughs at whatever facial response you have to that.

Apparently, that one interaction from across the bar is enough to make him approach you.

You’re completely sure that you must be passed out on your couch having some kind of crazy, fever dream right now. Your phone buzzing is the only thing that makes you remember this is real.

_TAKE A PICTURE!!!!!!!!!!!_ Your friend demands.

You don’t get to reply before Bruce is next to you, gesturing to the seat across from you, and asking if he can claim it.

You must nod your head or squeak out a yes because he laughs again and sits.

“Hi, I’m Bruce,” he says, offering you his hand.

You stare for a moment before shaking yourself out of your state of shock long enough to place your hand in his. His hand is warm and calloused, like a guitar player’s fingers should be, and his grin turns boy-like when you tell him your name.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

“Believe me,” you tell him, “it’s much nicer meeting you.”

You must be the most hilarious person he’s ever met, or he just laughs at everything, but either way he laughs again.

“I take it you recognize me?” He asks.

It’s sweet and somehow humble sounding the way he phrases that as a question.

“Yeah, Admiral Pike,” you manage to answer, no small measure of sass in your tone, “I definitely recognize you.”

He hums a soft, amused sound at that and takes another sip of his beer.

“You come to Nowhere, USA often to play blues music in rundown bars?” You ask him.

He snorts before saying, “Yeah, actually. I do. As often as I can.”

“Well I need to leave my apartment more often then,” you tell him.

He notices that your drink it mostly empty and he motions for the bartender to send over another.

“Do you like blues?” He asks.

You nod without hesitating, accepting the new drink gladly from the only waitress in the joint.

“I love blues,” you say after taking a healthy gulp of bourbon, “I especially love Stevie Ray Vaughan.”

He looks impressed.

“You’ve got good taste,” he tells you.

“You’ve got impressive talent,” you say, feeling more brazen, “I don’t play guitar myself, but I still know that’s a damn rough piece to perform. You did it well.”

He ducks his head a little and almost looks embarrassed as he thanks you for the praise.

“If I didn’t already want to make out with you, I certainly want to now.”

The words fly out of your mouth before you can think the better of them.

You must look as startled as Bruce does when he looks back up again, because he laughs again, and you do your best to hide your heated face behind your quickly emptying drink glass.

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” you scramble to make things better, “It’s my birthday, please don’t hate me!”

He takes another sip of his beer and leans forward on the table, bracing himself on his elbows.

“Is it really your birthday?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you say with a nod.

“And you want to make out with me?” He asks, tone dripping with mischief and something that sounds almost like interest.

“I mean, no not really, I mean,” you start to stumble through an attempt to backpedal, but you give up on it quickly. “Oh, fuck it! Of course I want to make out with you! Look at you! Our mouths should totally be touching!”

He leans back then, grinning ridiculously, as he stretches a little in the booth.

The musician at the mic calls out Bruce’s name before either of you can fully process what has just happened between you both: two virtual strangers in a shithole of a bar, talking about touching faces.

He tilts his beer and stares at the little remaining liquid before pushing the bottle towards you.

“Keep an eye on this for me,” he tells you as he gets up and heads back toward the stage again.

What’s that phrase? You hate to see him leave, but you love to watch him go?

You snap a quick phone pic before he gets too far and send it to your friend all before he even reaches his guitar again.

“I’d normally switch to some B.B. King after that first number,” he tells the few people in attendance when he’s back at the mic again, “but it’s my new friend’s birthday and she has a deep appreciation for Mr. Vaughan, so I hope you don’t mind if I stick with him for now.”

He turns to the drummer, exchanges a few words with the band, and then nods to count them in.

When he starts up “Tin Pan Alley,” you damn near pass out in your seat.

Your friend is blowing up your phone, but you can’t even answer her because this is a fucking religious experience right here. Almost twelve whole minutes of musical, spiritual nirvana.

Bruce leaves the stage when he’s finished, once again placing his guitar off to the side on its stand, and then he makes his way, determined, straight back to you.

He grabs his beer when he reaches the booth and swallows down what’s left of it while watching you. His eyes are too intense to turn away from. He then nudges your shoulder so you’ll slide over and let him sit beside you.

“You seemed like the kind of person who likes Tin Pan Alley,” he says, voice hushed and private, masked further by the sounds of the band accompanying someone else for the next song.

You’re sure people must be watching you, after that performance and then the visual encore when Bruce stalked over to you like you might be his evening meal.

“I am definitely the kind of person who likes Tin Pan Alley,” you confirm, mouth going dry.

He leans a little closer and says, “And you’re the kind of person who wants to make out with me.”

It’s not a question, but you nod anyway.

He kind of half shrugs before reaching out to touch the tips of his fingers to your jaw.

“Well, who am I to deny us both some desired fun, especially on your birthday?” He asks, smirking, before he leans in and presses his mouth to yours.

It starts out as a soft pressure, lips barely touching, but you can only stand that for so long before you’re shaking off your disbelief and leaning in a little harder, kissing back a little rougher.

His tongue swipes into your mouth and you can taste beer mixed with bourbon as you sink your fingers into his t-shirt, stretching it all askew, unsure of when your hands found their way to his chest, and not really caring how ruined his shirt is going to end up.

The soft growl he makes when he holds you a little closer, angles the kiss a little deeper, will be burned into your memory forever.

This is it. This is everything. You’re sure then that none of your future birthdays could ever possibly be as good as this one.

You're unsurprisingly okay with that.


End file.
